


point, aim, shoot

by orphan_account



Category: Days - Fandom
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, Hate Sex, M/M, Soccer, and her writing, but you know, this is basically just an homage to envy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 07:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9712166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Their second year in the league, Ooshiba’s playoff bun is so awful that Atsushi wants to die.He doesn’t die, obviously, because he’s a baller professional athlete with multiple six-figure endorsement deals and Ooshiba’s just, like, some irrelevant scrub with a Golden Boot and an artfully shot photo of himself drinking champagne out of the Boot nailed to his living room wall and that is not a dude worth dying for, manbun or no.





	

Their second year in the league, Ooshiba’s playoff bun is so awful that Atsushi wants to  _die_.

He doesn’t die, obviously, because he’s a baller professional athlete with multiple six-figure endorsement deals and Ooshiba’s just, like, some irrelevant scrub with a Golden Boot and an artfully shot photo of himself drinking  _champagne_  out of the Boot  _nailed to his living room wall_  and that is not a dude worth dying for, manbun or no.

So.

Instead of dying, Atsushi has a classy ass pair of shears in a padded, oak box delivered to Ooshiba’s dumb London brownstone.

 _fuck u,_  Ooshiba texts him the next day.

 _only if you put that thing on ur head out of its misery,_ Atsushi returns, not a little smugly.

Ooshiba doesn’t respond for an hour and a half, and when he does, it’s just with a cut-off, slightly blurry picture of himself in a pair of black boxer briefs. He’s curling his stomach in, the angle doing everything and then some to the long, lean, post-season cut of his muscles, the lithe shape of his hips—

Atsushi sulkily jerks off in the shower before sending back a petulant grey ghost emoji.

 _gonna eat u out til u cry,_  Ooshiba answers, and Atsushi shudders harder than he had after his actual orgasm.  _not gonna cut my hair first._

 _you’re dead to me_ , Atsushi tells him.

 _finally,_  is all Ooshiba replies with.

Atsushi frowns.

 

 

It’s not like they’ve been angrily hooking up on the sly since meeting at a Juniors skills camp in Calgary four years ago, except that’s exactly what they’ve been doing.

 

 

It’s preseason, and Ooshiba’s fucking Atsushi through a subpar queen-sized mattress at a sketchy airport Sheraton in Chicago.

“Your goal shots have always been garbage,” Atsushi hisses, biting down on the curve where Ooshiba’s neck meets his shoulder. Ooshiba’s impossibly sensitive there. His broken, gasping moans make Atsushi’s knees feel like he’s done nothing but run ladders for an hour. “My—my  _great-grandmother_  could outplay you.”

“Yeah?” Ooshiba retorts, squeezing Atsushi’s ass and rubbing a too-dry, too-rough, finger around the stretched-out rim of his hole. “The one who married her cousin?”

“Oh, fuck—fuck off, I’m gonna Ancestry.com you  _so hard_ ,” Atsushi says, arching his spine and rolling his hips and forcibly reigning in the urge to  _beg_  Ooshiba to touch him, holy  _shit_. “ _So hard_.”

Ooshiba snorts. “How hard, exactly?”

“Harder than you’re  _fucking me_ ,” Atsushi snaps, which is a blatant and frankly pointless lie because Ooshiba’s better at sex than he is at soccer and Ooshiba’s  _really shitting good at soccer_. Atsushi can still remember popping a super uncomfortable boner in a sketchy sports bar while watching Ooshiba net his very first goal back when they’d both been idiot rookies spending more time getting flashed yellows than playing on the field.

Now, though, Ooshiba’s gritting his teeth like he thinks Atsushi’s actually being serious, reaching up to thumb at Atsushi’s nipples and hitching his forearm up under Atsushi’s back and yanking him forward a little bit, and—and— _oh_ —hell, yeah, that’s his prostate. Being nailed. Repeatedly. With  _precision_.

“You’re gonna—you’re gonna  _feel this_  tomorrow,” Ooshiba says, voice low and gravelly, deep enough that Atsushi already feels it, feels it thrum out from Ooshiba’s chest and vibrate right through his skin. “You’re gonna feel it, and you’re gonna—”

“I’m gonna what?” Atsushi pants, biting a bruise onto the hinge of Ooshiba’s jaw.

“You’re gonna think about me,” Ooshiba says with that same obnoxious confidence he’s had since Juniors. “Think about my cock, about how  _good_  you’re taking it, shit, gonna—gonna come—”

“Shit,” Atsushi breathes, heat spiraling out of control in his lower abdomen, “me too, I’m—Ooshiba—”

Their eyes meet, black on grey on  _black,_ and Ooshiba’s hand wraps itself around the head of Atsushi’s cock.

“Yeah,” Ooshiba murmurs. “Just like that. C’mon.”

Atsushi comes.

 

 

Two months later, Atsushi’s boarding the team’s charter plane to New York, smirking down at his phone while he stows his carry-on in the overhead compartment.

 _can’t wait to humiliate you in front of all your loser fans tomorrow,_ he texts Ooshiba as he’s settling into the empty seat next to Mizuki.  _they’re going to burn your jerseys in the gift shop._

 _lmao its gonna be a shutout u guys hvnt won a game in 2 weeks,_  Ooshiba immediately replies.

_keeping tabs on me, asshole?_

A couple of minutes pass without a response, but then:  _i get mls alerts._

 _liar liar liar liar,_  Atsushi sends back.

 _sry my teams not as lame as urs,_ Ooshiba says,  _u still following womens tennis or nah._

“What the fuck do you look so happy about?” Mizuki grumbles, yawning into his fist. “Usui just passed out  _homemade granola_ , I’m, like,  _this close_  to wishing for the apocalypse.”

 _w/e you want to put a dope ass ring on all of this don’t front,_  Atsushi types before stuffing his phone in his jacket pocket.

 

 

Atsushi had played on the same line as Ooshiba during a rare multinational scrimmage at Worlds.

Seven minutes of missed passes and broken plays and an accidental assist to the  _other team_ that had resulted in a wonky shot glancing off the goal post and skipping in horrific slow-motion right into an empty net. Ooshiba had taken a three minute penalty for the swing he took at Atsushi, and Atsushi had spit out a mouthful of blood before tripping over his own cleats, losing the ball to a girly looking Swede with a man-bun whose heavily accented trash talk—  _“You and boyfriend have fight? Trouble in bedroom?”_ —should have been objectively hilarious but was somehow just really depressingly on point.

Atsushi and Ooshiba—they didn’t meld, or mesh, or whatever the fuck; they didn’t instinctively become mind-readers; they didn’t have that bone-deep physical awareness of each other out on the field that they probably  _should_ have, considering how much time they spent together naked.

They played ugly soccer.

Just.

Bad,  _ugly soccer_.

Atsushi hadn’t gone to college, but he was pretty fucking sure that was a metaphor for something. 

 

 

He’s at an airport newsstand in Denver when he sees it.

 **SOCCER STAR CAUGHT IN EARLY MORNING WALK OF SHAME** , reads the headline on the Sunday edition of the  _Post_.

There’s a grainy photo of Ooshiba in his game-day suit—a rumpled pair of slacks and a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, skinny blue tie hanging undone around his collar, mouth relaxed and hair an unruly mess and demeanor so visibly, emphatically  _languid_ —fucked-out—that it’s impossible to mistake. Atsushi knows that look. Atsushi is usually  _responsible_  for that look. Ooshiba’s expression is pensive, a weak stream of sunlight glinting off the hardware of his one ear stud, but he’s staring down at his phone with an intensity that doesn’t quite match what’s going on in the rest of the image.

Atsushi suddenly feels vaguely nauseous.

 

 

All-Star Weekend is a catastrophic disaster.

The year before, Ooshiba had loitered like a delinquent in front of the bank of elevators near Atsushi’s hotel room, allegedly on the hunt for a vending machine that carried Funyuns, until Atsushi had dragged him inside to argue about kickoff percentages and Ooshiba had whined his way into turning on  _300_  a-fucking-gain and there had been sirloin cheeseburgers and travel-sized bottles of lube and super intense, incredibly messy sweatpants sex that Atsushi hadn’t particularly wanted to consider the ramifications of, not then and not now, because waking up to Ooshiba’s mouth on his dick and knowing that in three or four hours he was going to have to go up against him in a ball-handling contest—well, he’d come down Ooshiba’s throat, and then he’d laughed and laughed and laughed into a discarded Manchester United shirt that had smelled like laundry detergent and Old Spice and sandalwood shaving cream and—

This year, Ooshiba knocks on Atsushi’s door outright.

This year, Atsushi doesn’t bother answering.

This year, that train wreck of a fucking  _300_ sequel is already blaring from the tinny flat-screen speakers, and one of Usui’s disgusting microwaveable bowls of quinoa or whatever is sitting on the desk by the window, and the niggling twinge of dread that Atsushi’s been diligently pretending isn’t there ever since he left Denver is, admittedly, really,  _really_   _there_.

 _go fuck yourself,_  Atsushi texts Ooshiba, wishing desperately that smashing keys on a touch-screen was just  _slightly_  more satisfying.  _or fuck someone else. you’re probably not that picky._

The knocking stops.

 

 

There are only a few weeks left in the regular season when Ooshiba nuts up and attempts to actually call Atsushi.

“Kiichi Ooshiba,” Atsushi drawls, pausing his totally and completely satisfying solo game of FIFA 17. “The fuck do  _you_  want?”

“Phone works, then,” Ooshiba replies, uncharacteristically cagey.

“Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because you’ve been ignoring me for a month and a half?”

“Uh, yeah,” Atsushi says again, careful to keep his tone lofty with disdain. “We’ve been fucking without condoms for, like,  _three years_ , Ooshiba, that article I saw was some ‘ _et tu, Brutus?’_  shit.”

There’s several seconds of silence. “The article you—wait, what? Who’s Brutus?”

Atsushi huffs. “The article. In the  _Post_.”

Ooshiba hesitates, and then audibly swallows like he’s about to give himself a pep talk and ride into battle. “I should have told you—”

“Nah,” Atsushi interjects. “You don’t owe me anything, Ooshiba, that’s—that was the  _point_  of all of this, wasn’t it? It was just kind of. You know. Unhygienic. Or whatever.”

Ooshiba makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat. “What are you…Kimishita, what article did you  _see_ , exactly?”

Atsushi purses his lips. “ _Hockey star caught in early morning walk of shame,_ ” he recites, furious all over again, because hysteria is finally starting to eclipse the embarrassment and the frustration and the rage that have kind of become second-nature to him over the past few weeks, and that’s—that’s some  _bullshit,_  is what it is.

So.

Instead of waiting for Ooshiba to reply or explain himself or get even weirder than he already is, Atsushi hangs up. Because he’s an  _adult_. Who makes  _adult decisions_. Like a fucking  _boss_.

Ooshiba doesn’t call back.

 

 

It’s pretty annoying having to watch _REAL_  steal the last remaining playoffs spot.

“Fucking Inohara and his fucking pansy-ass soft hands,” Atsushi mutters as he cleans out his locker.

“Hey,” Mizuki says, leveling a tired glare in Atsushi’s general direction. “Not cool, bro. Go get your dick wet. You’ve been a drag since January.”

“ _You_  go get your dick wet,” Atsushi snipes, which is a gratuitous insult because Mizuki is  _always_  getting his dick wet, that’s, like, his only marketable skill outside of playing forward. “I’m fine.”

Mizuki tosses a sweat-stiff practice jersey into his bag. “Sure,” he replies doubtfully. “That’s why you’ve been using a Manchester United calendar as a dartboard.”

“Just October, actually,” Atsushi retorts, like that makes anything about his entire life any less pathetic. “Mr. October’s the real asshole here, okay?”

“Mr. October,” Mizuki repeats, looking pained. “You’re calling their future hall-of-famer  _star center—_ ”

“Anyway,” Atsushi practically yells, “ _fuck_  Manchester United, and  _fuck_  REAL, and where the  _fuck’s_  my tape, man?”

Mizuki wordlessly pelts him with a jockstrap.

 

 

Three weeks into the off-season, Atsushi’s invited to brunch at Kazama and Usui’s epically gay little soccer love nest in the suburbs.

He’s not really sure why. Kazama literally hates him, and Usui only makes the barest pretense of tolerating Atsushi because he’d choke on his crazy captain guilt if he didn’t.

“Seriously?” Atsushi grimaces, picking up an old orange juice stained copy of the  _Post_  that’s tucked behind the toaster in the kitchen. He reflexively checks the date. “This is from  _January_ , you heathens, don’t you have a cleaning service?”

Usui glances up from where he’s arranging three pieces of bacon into a power play. His right wing is burnt on one end. “Oh,” he replies blankly. “Yeah, no, that’s a…memento, I guess? Ooshiba billeted with me his last year of Juniors. That whole article is about that.”

A needling pang of unease hits Atsushi like an uppercut to the chin. “What…what’s it say?”

Usui shrugs. “The usual. Talked a lot about his godfather, learning to skate, all of that—oh, and some skills camp he went to in New York? That, uh, changed him for the better, I think is what he said? Made him want to work harder, be better…” Usui’s expression turns alarmingly dreamy. “Everyone has one of those moments, you know, those—those  _soccer_  moments, where it all just…clicks. Where you really  _realize_ , you know, that this is  _it_ , this is what you want to  _do_ , forever—”

Atsushi lets Usui go on about that for almost thirty whole minutes. It feels a little like torture and a lot like penance and there’s a microscopically tiny glimmer of  _hope_  flickering to life in the vague vicinity of Atsushi’s chest—region—whatever—because  _he’d gotten it all wrong_. Probably.

 _you’re the fucking worst,_  he texts Ooshiba. It’s been two months. He wants to punch Ooshiba, and he wants to punch Usui, and he wants to punch himself.  _i can’t believe i’m fucking in love with you._

 

 

There are only economy seats left on the first flight Atsushi can find out to London.

“Window, please,” he tells the guy behind the ticketing counter, because six hours of cheap apple juice and zero leg room is enough of a sacrifice. He’s not  _martyring_ himself for this.

The guy winces. “Nah, man. Aisle only.”

Atsushi clenches his jaw as he slides over his credit card, but then his phone vibrates in his jacket pocket and he—

A ghost emoji.

Ooshiba’s texted him a  _ghost emoji_.

 _fuck you that’s my thing_ , Atsushi types, stomach swooping, and it’s not at all unlike the first time Ooshiba had sent him a picture of his dick, long and hard and somehow still really, really mouthwatering despite the gross fluorescent lighting and the uncapped tube of toothpaste lurking in the foreground.

Atsushi’s phone vibrates again. This time, there are  _two_  ghost emojis.

 _you’re kind of my thing too_ , Atsushi replies, helplessly fond.

 

 

Ooshiba’s basically  _naked_ when he answers the door at his dumb London brownstone.

“You’re a moron,” he snaps, scratching at his bare torso. He doesn’t even have the decency to  _greet_  Atsushi. Or pretend to be surprised by his arrival. Dick. “I was—that picture was taken in  _December_ , when you were  _here_ , I was—I was leaving  _your_ hotel, I haven’t slept with anyone  _but_  you since…since… _you know_.”

Atsushi blinks. “Wait, really?”

Ooshiba’s mouth opens, and then closes, and then opens again. “Have  _you_  been fucking other people?” he demands.

Atsushi rears back, appalled and offended and  _aghast._  “Of fucking course not.”

Ooshiba jabs a finger in the middle of Atsushi’s chest. “Well, neither have I.”

Atsushi sniffs. “Good.”

Ooshiba glares. “Don’t—stop  _looking_  like that.”

“Like what?”

“Smug. Don’t be smug. You almost fucked everything up.”

Atsushi smirks. “ _Almost_.”

Ooshiba’s eyes narrow, even as his lips twitch upwards, flatten into an unimpressed line, and then twitch back down—and then he’s pulling his phone out from the pocket of his shorts, making a big deal about typing in his password and scrolling through his messages and—

“What’s this?” he drawls in an overloud monotone. “From _Atsushi Kimishita,_ today, at 11:14 in the morning, and I quote  _,_   _‘I can’t believe I’m in love with—_ ’”

“So!” Atsushi interrupts, lifting his chin to hide the electric pink heat of his blush. “I haven’t gotten to suck your dick in, like, two months. Withdrawals are a thing. I saw it on  _Intervention_.”

Ooshiba stares at him for a while, features spasming with something like incredulously affectionate disgust. “I’m  _attracted_  to you right now,” he mumbles. “What the  _fuck_.”

“Fuck you,” Atsushi automatically replies, fighting off a truly stupid grin. “I’m trying to offer you an apology blowjob.”

Ooshiba chokes out a laugh. “You just told me you were having  _withdrawals_  you missed my dick so much, I don’t really think it counts as an apology if you’re fucking gagging for it.”

Atsushi’s mouth floods with saliva, and his throat tightens and his gut  _clenches_  and he doesn’t know what his face is doing right now but it must be advertising at least a little of his seriously incomprehensible desire to get on with the makeup sex because Ooshiba’s gaze is going dark and focused like it does when he’s about to score and Atsushi—Atsushi’s been mortifyingly easy for Ooshiba’s smile and Ooshiba’s soccer and Ooshiba’s  _everything_  for  _years_. It’s the best kind of head rush to realize he hasn’t been alone in that.

“Yeah,” Atsushi murmurs, tongue darting out to tap once, and then twice, and then go still against his bottom lip. “Fucking gagging for it.”

Ooshiba grabs the front of Atsushi’s shirt, hauling him in for a kiss that’s messy and filthy and definitely going to leave a mark—

“Same,” Ooshiba eventually whispers into his neck. “Same.”

 

 

The day before the trade deadline, Ooshiba calls.

“Hey, asshole.”

“You’re supposed to be groveling,” Atsushi says, squinting into his refrigerator. There’s an eggplant in the vegetable crisper. What the hell do people do with eggplant? “We had a deal. You don’t love me enough.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ooshiba agrees, aggravatingly casual. “What are you doing?”

Atsushi scowls at the eggplant. “Nothing,” he says darkly.

“Miss me?”

“No,” Atsushi lies. “In fact, I’m breaking up with you.”

Ooshiba snorts. “No, you’re not.”

“Uh, yeah, I totally am,” Atsushi argues, slamming his refrigerator door shut. Screw the eggplant. It’s the motherfucking offseason. He can order  _pizza_. “I’m just not gonna do it over the phone because that’s, like, the douchiest move ever. So. There.”

“Since when do you give a shit about being a douche?” Ooshiba sounds genuinely curious.

Atsushi hangs up.

 _im being traded_ , Ooshiba texts him less than twenty seconds later.

Atsushi’s eyebrows fly up.  _did the entire front office over there suffer a collective brain injury??? or wait no was it the playoff bun did it turn off the fans_

 _r u rly gonna make me say it_ , is all Ooshiba responds with.

 _you’re still the worst,_ Atsushi texts back,  _even if you did request a trade here like a stalker because you were tired of me beating you at skype sex._

Five minutes go by, and then Ooshiba sends a picture of his half-hard dick, fist loose around the base of it, the middle finger of his other hand clearly visible.

 _baby don’t be like that,_  Atsushi can’t help replying, even as his heart hammers and his pulse races and something awful and warm and exhilarating begins to creep into his lungs. _its so sexy when we effectively communicate_.

His phone rings.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to apologize to literally everyone for this.
> 
> I'm just going to go and die now


End file.
